


Surprise Me

by fairdeath



Series: Two Halves of a Whole [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, Gender-Neutral Pronouns for Pidge | Katie Holt, Mentions of Hunk (Voltron), No Spoilers, Other, Trans Character, Transgender Pidge, coffee shop AU, non-binary Pidge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-07
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-09-22 17:05:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9617108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairdeath/pseuds/fairdeath
Summary: “Hi,” they breathe, the slightest hint of two dimples taunting Shiro. “What can I get you?”Your hand in marriage, a tiny part of Shiro’s barbaric mind begs. He wishes the urge to shake his head of the thought was stronger. Shiro’s head falls for a moment, looks to his hands, fingers tied together, five of flesh, five of aluminium and iron. He watches the joints in his prosthetic hand flex and click as he swallows the lump in his throat before looking up once more."Surprise me."





	

**Author's Note:**

> [shows up an entire season late with starbucks] but those four seconds in s1 where shidge was definitely made cannon, though, amirite?  
> you can,, probably read this as platonic, but you'd have to squint so hard your eyes shut, so 0/10 would not recommend.

Shiro knows he’s made a mistake by walking into the small coffee shop the moment the door begins to close behind him. The reprieve from the chill of early-spring morning air is welcomed, though. The aroma of freshly roasted coffee beans invades his nostrils and wraps him in a blanket of warmth, hugging him close and enticing him like a siren at sea. He is weak; Monday morning threatens to drain him of all life, with meetings and pages of statistics and formulas, plans for the future of a company he does not care for. This is why any kick is a welcome one, be it directly to the temple, or made of a caffeine sludge.

The store is quiet, but not in a way that makes him concerned for the longevity of the business. The walls are hidden behind bookshelves that reach from floor to ceiling, each shelf filled to the brim. Shiro imagines each one would bend in the centre from the weight of it all if it weren’t for the fact that each shelf below the last is stuffed like a turkey on Thanksgiving, supporting the weight of the shelf above. The papers of each book, no matter if they are tattered and falling from the spine of their home from years of love, or stuck together from months of neglect, take in the sounds around them, absorbing each vibration from the metal jugs clinking, ceramic knocking together, the cash register opening and closing, coins rustling, and the quiet, private laughter of patrons.

A small corner is carpeted, covered in soft, upholstered chairs and couches, a coffee table between two couches that surrounded it. The fabric of one, like an elderly grandmother’s own, has cushions loved in by regulars, he assumes from the dips in the centre of each. The other, leather, evidently popular with students and scholars, he takes note from the small scratches of black and blue ink on the armrests.

Shiro takes his time when he makes his way towards the register. His eyes dance across cupcakes topped with icing in a myriad of colours, loaves of banana bread, some of date, several sprinkled with coconut. With an appreciative hum, his eyes lift to the wall behind the cabinet. A chalkboard, covered in writing that depicts their staff’s interpretations of what some of the drinks look like, listings for each drink on the left hand side. Why does there have to be so many names for what is essentially the same thing, just different amounts of fluffy warm milk in them? They all share the same base; espresso, warm milk, foamy milk. The ratio differs, but not much else, hence why instant coffee goop is all Shiro’s breakfast has consisted of for the past year.

He stares at the menu, a frown evident on his face if the tug between his eyebrows and the pull at the base of each cheek is anything to go by. God, he hadn’t even planned to walk in here, but the smell of the roasting beans just pulled him, unwillingly, unnoticed, until the chime of the bell on the door closing pulled him from his standing nap. Shiro supposes he should probably purchase a coffee, though, if his thoughts on how comfortable the grandma-couch looks are anything to go by.

The rustle of mugs in a shelf beneath the bench pulls Shiro from his contemplation, and its quickly followed by a mop of golden hair springing up from below the cash register. The person with hair like a princess, golden locks reminding him of Rapunzel, or, with the short length of it, Goldilocks, has eyes of a similar colour; definitely brown, but with golden hues that glisten as the light dances in their eyes, a smattering of freckles dusted across their cheeks and bridge of their nose like constellations. In all honesty, Shiro shouldn’t be captivated by them. They’re short, scrawny, body lithe like a figure skate. Their hair is blond and their eyes are brown. They have freckles, like half the population does.

But they’re glowing like an angel who has descended from the heavens above, wings hidden, or invisible, or something.

Their smile is definitely sent by some sort of God, though.

“Hi,” they breathe, the slightest hint of two dimples taunting Shiro, “sorry about that. What can I get you?”

 _Your hand in marriage_ , a tiny part of Shiro’s barbaric mind begs. He wishes the urge to shake his head of the thought was stronger. Shiro’s head falls for a moment, looks to his hands, fingers tied together, five of flesh, five of aluminium and iron. He watches the joints in his prosthetic hand flex and click as he swallows the lump in his throat before looking up once more.

“Uh,” Shiro gawks, “I’m going to be honest, I didn’t plan on coming in; those beans and their aroma just dragged me here, I swear.” He laughs inelegantly, runs his flesh fingers through his hair before resting them against the back of his neck, rubbing there to remove his irregular lack of self-confidence. The angel in front of him laughs honestly; he can tell from the way their chest rumbles with it, the hint of a snort forcing its way through at the end.

“Oh, I’m sorry. That would be my fault,” they apologise, a hand gesturing towards the large machine towards the front of the store. “I made up a batch of our dark roast this morning,” they explain, fingers folding in together, intertwining, smile not reaching their eyes, but definitely proud of their work.

“Well, it would be a shame not to try,” Shiro promises, a smirk on his mouth. He can feel the tug of it against the scar across his nose. “Surprise me; something with lots of caffeine though,” he asks.

“You’re right; it is Monday, after all,” they agree. “Were you planning on taking it with you?” they ask as they push their finger in seemingly random spots on the screen between them, eyes looking to Shiro’s backpack, standing out like a sore thumb on the back of his dress shirt and slacks. Shiro contemplates for a moment; his first meeting isn’t for another two hours, and any work that needs doing in the meantime can be done on the laptop stowed in his bag.

 “I might stay and admire the library you’ve acquired, actually,” Shiro answers, his eyes following along the section of books that resemble textbooks – it seems that either people have left them on purpose, or they’re supporting patrons’ educations in whatever means they can. He hopes it’s the latter.

When Shiro’s eyes make their way back to Goldilocks, he sees they’ve written something on the little notebook beside the screen between them. It isn’t in English, though the lettering is certainly Latin.

“And your name? So I know what to yell later,” their voice murmurs, pen bouncing between their fingers, long and lithe like the rest of their body. “Is it as strong as you look?”

It’s too early on a Monday morning for all his blood to want to go south, but an angel is asking what name to yell later, _fuck_. Shiro tries to swallow his tongue, hopes the bead of sweat rolling down his temple is only metaphoric and not a reality. Realistically, he knows Goldilocks only means once his drink is ready, but he is only human, and a weak one at that, apparently.

“Uh, you tell me,” Shiro chokes out, “Shirogane.” Goldilocks hums in contemplation at that, head nodding softly at the thought.

“Not quite, but you carry it well,” they reveal, smile softening from something a little too ingrained from customer service into something so honest, Shiro feels a heart palpitation shake his core. His fingers dig through the pockets in his slacks, searching for the phone he knows is there, and scans it to pay when he sees the light flash on the card reader. “I’ll let you know when it’s ready,” they promise, a slight nod to their head as they dig into their work.

Moment forgotten, Shiro breathes for the first time in what feels like at least four minutes, straightens his posture, and turns back to the walls of books that caught his eye to begin with. He makes his way to the left most side, fingers toying with the spine of each book, head tilted to the right in order to read each spine more easily.

Science clearly takes up at least one wall of the store, each section dedicated to a different focus point. Of all the books, though, space and technology are the prevailing themes. His fingers dance from book to book, topics such as the Milky Way and its planets, the atmosphere of each one, the known universe and each of its galaxies known to date (read: a lot), supernovas, red dwarves, the void of space, before he makes his way to technology; how to build a computer from the base up, basic robots, wirings, engines, fans, jets – wait, is that a robot cat? The collection is extensive, to be succinct.

With a note to self of “read this collection from left to right,” Shiro finds himself taking a seat among the leather couch, sections squeaking as he sits. His backpack ends up beside him, laptop pulled from its pocket and open on his lap, a word document full of notes for the meeting, and of previously held ones, open and staring at him with shame; he should be at work, but God help him if he hasn’t found a new home here between these couch cushions and too many books. The words, “focus on structure and open-book,” stare at him cynically.

The frown on his face must be evident.

“I’m glad you asked for something with lots of caffeine,” Goldilocks confesses as they place a saucer and mug beside him on the table, “because whatever is on that screen obviously has you upset and hating yourself.”

With wide eyes full of shock and an appreciative smile, he murmurs a staggered ‘thank you’ before wrapping bionic fingers around the handle of the white mug.

“You’re not wrong,” Shiro huffs in between jostled, slight laughter, as he brings the mug closer to his mouth. The aroma caresses his cheeks, wraps around him like a loved one’s hug, presses kisses of love and adoration to his forehead with the near-sickeningly sweet scent. Goldilocks stands beside him, awaiting his thoughts on the drink, hands clasped behind their back. His lips wrap around the edge of the mug, tilts it, feels the warmth fill his mouth and – _oh my God._

An explosion of sugar and heady strength of near-too much espresso caress his tongue. Shiro nearly chokes on it with the conflicting flavours – deep and strong espresso, like a punch to his heart, and light, airy, fluffy sweetness, like fresh fairy floss, holding his head above the thick, strong aroma of coffee beans.

Torn from his moment alone, he hears the angel beside him laugh, open and honestly, a hand in front of their mouth, fisted like it’s trying to contain the amount of glee spouting out. “I’m glad you like it, but are the moans really necessary?”

Oh, god. Oh _god,_ he was so into this fiery explosion of sweetness and bitterness, the caress and hold of each flavour, that he didn’t hear himself _moan_ , and _in public,_ in front of _Goldilocks_.

He swallows against the lump in his throat, lets the drink go with it. Swallows again as he pointlessly opens and closes his mouth to find an excuse.

“Totally your fault,” Shiro settles on, not allowing himself to get caught up on the connotations that follow. “It’s so _good,_ ” he compliments, inarticulately, eyes glued to the cup as though he might be able to dissect its pieces with them, “what _is_ this?”

Goldilocks’ laughter warms somewhere deep in his chest, sticks, carves a hole and makes a home there.

“It’s not on the menu, but we call it Altean Agar,” they reply, smile threatening to turn into a grin, hand wiping at their eyes from the laughter.

“God, I’m so glad I asked you to surprise me,” Shiro breathes, shamelessly sniffing deeply at the drink of the gods.

Shiro can’t help but compare the drink to Goldilocks. Sickly sweet, warming him to the core, holding his attention like nothing has for weeks, and it makes his head spin with such a strong feeling of _home_.

 

He comes back the following Monday, less of an accident than the last time. Seeing Goldilocks, he makes his way straight to the counter, filled with determination.

“Think you can surprise me again?” Shiro asks Goldilocks, a sparkle in his eye, excited to try another concoction. Goldilocks doesn’t even blink, only pokes at the screen in front of them, tongue poking at the inside of their left cheek as they squint their eyes in focus, brows furrowed.

“Can do,” they assure him, “are you staying again?” Shiro prays that he isn’t projecting when he hears the hope in Goldilocks’ voice. He only nods twice in reply.

“I’ll bring it over to you,” Goldilocks’ murmurs, reaching for a glass atop of the coffee machine.

Shiro finds himself drawn to the textbooks, some thumbed through once in a bookshop and forgotten in the bag it was purchased in, some, like the ones on anatomy for art, and ones he remembers being ridiculously and unjustifiably expensive, like the ones on statistics and research models, are falling to pieces. He reaches for one, nostalgic for his college days –

God, he’s been out of higher education for two years, not twenty.

He sits on the leather couch once more, one leg crossed over the other, bag forgotten beside his foot. The textbook rests on his thigh, spread onto a random page. His eyes latch on to familiar formulas, like a refresher on something he learned in his first year, long since forgotten.

“Hey, careful with that; I have a midterm next week,” he hears Goldilocks warn, voice over his shoulder, sitting within three feet of his ear. Shiro freezes momentarily.

“Oh, I apologise,” Shiro stammers, closing the book with careful hands, placing it on the coffee table. Goldilocks scoffs behind him.

“It’s not like I love that book. I just need the last fourteen pages for revision, anyway,” they reassure him, placing a mug in front of him. The top has crema mixed elegantly with milk, drawn into a cluster of leaves.

“Let me know what you think,” Goldilocks murmurs, and if Shiro isn’t mistaken, that’s a hint of anxiety in their voice.

Shiro brings the mug to his nose, takes a deep inhale, waits for the aroma to take him like last time.

It is both the same, and nothing alike. It is sweet, yes, but fresh. Deep with the aroma of coffee beans, but a lighter roast, a greener scent, a grassier fragrance.  A hum falls from his lips, content with the environment the drink wraps him in.

Less like Goldilocks, and yet more alike; simple. Sweet, but a fresh face in a sea of sad business men. Deep; apparently a scholar – particularly the boring parts, a love for coffee, evidently. Green, like a forest, refreshing like the smiles they give him, cleansing after a sea of sad faces, washing away the dust and dirt to reveal the greatness beneath.

Mint. Chocolate. Coffee. Something nutty? Energising. Invigorating. Perfect for an overhaul of the norm.

“Apparently not as good as the last one,” Goldilocks’ guesses with a frown. “You’re more family friendly this time.”

Shiro tries not to choke on the words.

“Uh, well,” he stammers, “I do like this, I just don’t think it matches up to an out-of-this-world agar,” he settles on. Goldilocks’ face settles on something contemplative, they nod once before settling on something in their mind.

“I’ll work on it,” they assure him, turning to tend to their work, a look of determination stuck like cement to their skull.

Shiro stares at the closed textbook for probably far too long, nursing his drink quietly.

 

Goldilocks is sitting at the Grandma couch, the fifth Monday morning in, a textbook on engineering on the coffee table, their feet beside them on the couch, sock-clad toes wriggling, joggers sitting beneath them on the floor. On their lap, a notebook full of scribbled sentences sits, their fingers gripping at a cheap ballpoint pen.

“What’s on the menu this morning?” Shiro asks lightly, standing just beyond the leather couch he usually resides at.

“We’ll see,” Goldilocks retorts, giving nothing away. They rest their pen in the margin of the notebook before closing it, placing it beside the open textbook. Silently, Goldilocks stands, brushes off their lap, and makes their way to the work station.

“Pidge, you don’t start for another hour,” the big boned, big bodied man behind the industrial coffee machine reminds Goldilocks as they walk behind the bench.

Pidge?

“Sit down, I can get it,” Tall, Dark, and Handsome reassures them. Shiro watches them shake their head, mop of hair sloppily shaking with it. They poke at the screen between them again, key in something, leave Shiro to scan his card as they tug a hair clip from the pocket on their t-shirt, placing it between their teeth. Pianist-esque fingers tug at a section of hair, their fringe, pull it upwards and back. One hand holds the hair, the other retrieves the clip. Once snapped in place, their hands stand taught next to their face. They tap their cheeks twice in succession, determination written on their face.  

 _Pidge._ Shiro is falling from the Empire state building, at this rate. The pavement is engraved with the image of Goldi – _Pidge_ with their fringe pinned back with a bright pink clip, a matching watercolour of blush across their cheeks, puffed up, hands ready to tap energy into their skin. The name is so unique, and it would be cliché to say it matches them, but if the shoe fits.

The drink is warm, again. The aroma that grabs at his nose, bites at his cheeks, is slightly spicy, makes him think of his mom’s miso. The caffeine is less assaulting this time. Fresher, lighter. Like spring is on its way, but it may take another few days. There is a subtle sweetness to it, though. Like golden syrup, intertwined with chilli oil. It sticks to his heart with a fiery passion, and of course awakens him with the coffee it injects into his system like an intravenous drip.

 

It continues like this, bar steadily more frequently. As the seasons evolve, so do the drinks Pidge surprises Shiro with. They change from hot to cold, bitter to sickeningly sweet, a mixture of both to extreme ends of the spectrum, and the colours they reflect vary as much as their aromas. Sometimes Shiro does not have the time to stay, but always remembers to give his thoughts on the drink the next time he visits.

Pidge sometimes studies on the Grandma couch, a textbook on the coffee table, a notebook on their knees, as Shiro steadily sips at the concoction Pidge has made up, fingers deftly tapping away at the keys on his laptop, plans for meetings and papers on statistics pulled up along seemingly endless documents. They stay quiet, like the rest of the shop, but it is also not quiet at all. It’s less of a sound proofed environment, and more of a comfortable embrace. A tiny bubble that is his, and that is theirs. It isn’t frequent – Pidge has a job to do, and so does Shiro. But the infrequent silence between them is companionable. He cherishes it more than he probably should.

Shiro learns small facts about Pidge through their short, but frequent, encounters. Pidge is studying both technology and engineering; Shiro gawks. It’s essentially two languages. Pidge stammers quietly, fidgeting from their seat, humbly corrects Shiro and tells him that it’s really just two divisions of math; one language at most. Pidge is also not a cat person, or a dog person, generally. Their allergies mean that dog kisses make them itch, and cat hair makes them sneeze. Pidge loves television, and love representation of minorities of all kinds, loves seeing people they can relate to on any screen; they get particularly fired up about transgender representation, particularly about a-gendered characters. Shiro learns, then, that Pidge trusts him. They love sugar, but _really_ love salads – “What kind of college kid are you?” “An old one.” Their favourite month is March, but the blooming flowers and pollen make them red in the nose and watery eyed. They don’t care much for gardening, but they have cacti littering their apartment’s windowsills that flower on a rotating basis. They’re short sighted, and have to wear corrective lenses – “I’ve never seen you wear them,” “Contacts are harder to get dirty in the hospitality environment.”

 

When the leaves of the trees on the sidewalk begin to turn a gold that makes Shiro think of Pidge, he makes up his mind. A crisp leaf falls into his bionic hand. Not once had Pidge asked about Shiro’s arm, though considering they’re a soon-to-be engineer, and knees deep in technology studies, it must burn inside their stomach, white hot, to ask about what makes it up, at least. Shiro is both appreciative and irked by this fact. Most people don’t hesitate to gawk, but… on the flip side of that, is he not interesting enough to ask? He’s got a metal arm, for fuck’s sake, and Pidge is more than passionate about technology (the nitty-gritty of how his arm works) and engineering (how his arm is made up).

Well, only time will tell.

When he walks into the store, the place is startlingly loud in comparison to usual. A line wraps its way up the counter, so much longer than Shiro is used to seeing for after peak hour. He makes his way in the line, though, steadily working his way towards the front. He seems to be the last one, for the moment though. It leaves him to contemplate how he’s going to attack this. He’ll ju-

“What can I get you?” a sad, beaten up rendition of Pidge asks, eyes stuck to the screen between themself and patrons.

Oh god, he’s hit the front of the line already. Don’t panic, Shiro. Don’t panic.

“Surprise me, to go,” he manages, and hopes to whatever god is listening that it sounds cool. Pidge looks up from the screen, wide eyed, round glasses perched low on their nose.

“Shiro,” Pidge breathes, “Y-yeah, can do.” Their eyes fall back to the screen, prodding at buttons, clicking away. Their tongue slips from between their lips, poking out in the slightest way, and it would go unnoticed if Shiro’s world wasn’t rotating on an axis that directly correlates to Pidge’s smile.

“And your number,” Shiro follows up, impossibly quick, words melting together like cubes of chocolate over steaming water. Pidge’s fingers com to a halt, they still, frozen like ice. Slowly, Pidge looks up from the screen, a nervous, tired smile on their face. Shiro tries to swallow his tongue, feels the creeping blush that rises from his sternum attempt to swallow him whole at the same time. His fingers try to catch the blush as it escalates from the nape of his neck. He looks to the menus behind Pidge, ignores the gawking stare he’s getting.

“I – I mean, but only if that’s okay,” he stammers, “and I hope that wasn’t too forward, but I’ve been working up the nerve to ask since the day I found this place, and you’re always smiling, no matter how exhausted you are, and you sit on that ugly _goddamn_ couch like it’s your home while you study, and you’re so smart that I feel like an idiot sitting opposite you, which isn’t really saying much now that I think about it, but you’re so beautiful, _and_ smart, and _God_ , I’m so sorry,” Shiro wants to shove his dumb-dress shoe covered foot in his mouth as a representative art installation of this train wreck of an interaction, “Just, uh, the drink,” he corrects himself, tries to take back all the words his mouth wouldn’t _fucking combat_ , “please.”

Pidge stares at him, dumbfounded. Their eyes do not move, only blink twice in succession before dropping their head towards the screen. They poke at a few buttons on the screen before the card reader lights up.

“Can do,” Pidge murmurs, and it’s not great, but it isn’t life-ending of a response either.

Shiro limps over to his usual seat, sits down, licks his wounds while he waits. He’s blown a perfectly good relationship with his barista just because his heart wouldn’t shut the fuck up for an hour out of his day, _God_. He doesn’t want to have to find a new coffee shop, doesn’t want to learn what stupid name correlates to the stupid ratio of espresso to milk to foam.

He still thumbs through ‘coffee shops near me’ results on google.

“Shiro?” Pidge calls, hesitant. Shiro looks up, locks eyes with Pidge for a moment, registers the soft smile that doesn’t reach their eyes, show their dimples, watches Pidge turn to attack the mountain of dishes as a result of the earlier rush.

Shiro wordlessly retrieves his drink, murmurs a quiet, “Thank you,” and makes on his way for the day.

He takes his time on his commute to work from there. Doesn’t rush when the lights at the crossings turn green, doesn’t step up his pace when he sees them begin to go stale, or their countdowns begin. He sips at the drink, cinnamon and nutmeg caressing his tongue, tasting bitter after his earlier encounter, but still cavity-inducing levels of sweet. Bitter sweet, like he’ll eventually feel about his memories with Pidge, the gorgeous barista.

When he finds himself seated at his desk, slurping the last few cooled dregs at the bottom of the cup, he sees an unfamiliar black ink on the side of the cardboard. Ten digits, followed by a tiny, but definite heart.

His heart beats as many times per minute as his fingers type words when he stops his fingers from shaking.

 

_It’s no Altean Agar, but it’ll do._

The response is near instant.

 

_Funny, I thought the same about you._

 

God, he’s done for.

**Author's Note:**

> I just..... I love coffee.......... and I love trans representation...... and i love Shiro............ not necessarily in that order
> 
> this will probably become a series. i live for sassy pidge.


End file.
